


Ignorance

by Runners in the Glade (Beautiful_lies_x)



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Artist!Newt, M/M, Poet!Thomas, Slam Poet!Au, Stubborn!Minho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2509490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beautiful_lies_x/pseuds/Runners%20in%20the%20Glade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous asked:</p><p>thomas/minho wherein thomas is a slam poet and minho gets dragged by artsy!newt to come & watch him because "minho!!!! you dont understand, hes flawless okay?!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignorance

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god I totally love this prompt so much. Sorry for the terrible poem, it’s mine that I wrote quite a while back for my English class writing folio. I considered using a famous poem, but I wanted it to be entirely mine. I’m aware that Thomas wouldn’t get famous if this was the stuff he was producing, but, hey, you can put in any poem that you want. Okay? Okay. Also, warning, this is so cliché that it is literally painful.  
> Also, yes, I named it after my own slam poem, shut up.

"Minho." Newt deadpanned, digging his heels into the carpet stubbornly. "I am begging you!"   
Minho sighed, rolling his eyes in what could quite possibly be the most dramatic way ever. “Newt.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I have told you and retold you, I am not going to this pre-open opening night thingy! I’ll come for your opening night, you know I will, but I really don’t care about this…” he paused, clicked his tongue in an attempt to recall the name Newt had babbled about. “…Lenny person.” He was pretty sure that was right.  
Newt groaned, “It’s Tommy, shuckface. Tommy Green, and he is amazing. He is so talented, I swear Minho, you’ll love him.” The Brit rocked back on his heels, clasping his hands together in pleadingly. “Please.” He whined, “Please, please. Just give him one shot, and then I’ll never ever ever ask you to come again.” Newt bit his lip. “Ever.” He reaffirmed at Minho’s incredulous look.   
"Fine." He gave up suddenly and viciously, rolling his eyes when the blonde began to pump his fist repeatedly. "But I don’t ever want to hear about him again after this. You hear me? Never. You gotta promise, slinthead."  
"Yes, yes, okay!" Newt was practically glowing at this stage. "I am so glad you agreed, you are going to love him!" He reiterated.   
Minho rolled his dark eyes in annoyance.

  
The place was jam-packed. People spilled from the conference room out into the corridor, each and everyone looking as excited as the next. Newt pushed his way through the crowd, hands interlocked with Minho’s as he pulled the reluctant boy with him. The stage remained completely empty apart from a microphone on a stand, looking lost and forlorn with the blaring spotlight.   
"Newt," Minho complained, "I agreed to watching him ‘perform’," he said the last word mockingly. "But I agreed to no waiting time."  
"Shut up." Newt snapped, "He’s coming, okay? Now, shush up, shank."  
As though he was motivated by Newt’s words, a boy stepped out on stage. The crowd breathed in a collective gasp. Minho sighed impatiently, but eyes his were glued to the brunet as much as the people beside him. His hair was tossled to perfection, the “I look like I just rolled out of bed, but it actually took me half an hour to get this right” look. His head was ducked, but Minho could still see the evidence of dark freckles against the expanse of pale skin, and when Tommy reached the microphone and looked up, his heart stopped. Now, Minho was no poet, nor was he particularly romantic, but this landscape of darkened brown, hooded with secrets and beauty made his heart dance to a beat that was completely foreign to him.   
"Uh, hi." The brunet seemed uncomfortable with the mass of affection being poured his way. "Hello, I’m Thomas Green." The crowd clicked their fingers in response.  
"What the hell?" Minho muttered to Newt from the corner of his mouth.  
"It’s applause," he answered, "it’s quieter, let’s the poet keep going with minimal interruptions, but still praise, ya know?"  
Thomas Green kept talking, smiling brightly now. “Thanks guys, thanks.” He blushed. “Okay, um, this is a poem called Ignorance.”  
Minho rolled his eyes at the name, but smiled softly when Thomas endearingly fumbled with piece of paper in his hands.  
"Yeah, okay, so bare with me, because this is a First Reading."  
The crowd clicked fiercly, a few whoops coming from the back of the room. Newt made a strangled noise from somewhere to the left of him, but Minho’s eyes were trained like a hawk on Tommy’s reddening face.  
"I’m really doubting now that this is going to live up to your expectations." He laughed, "Here we go, anyway.

 _"Take a deep breath,_  
 _And as you exhale, watch the soft curls of smoke_  
 _Rising from your lips, like a kiss_  
 _From a deadly dragon._  
 _Curling and spinning away into the bitter air._  
 _Tilt your head back and watch the sky,_  
 _You used to say you knew everything,_  
 _As certainly as you knew that the sky was blue._  
 _You stand by that statement._  
 _Because you were wrong about the sky being blue._  
 _Now, it is a harsh and unforgiving grey,_  
 _Clouds blocking the rays of light you so desperately crave,_  
 _The wind seeping into your already weary bones._  
 _Later, you will still be wrong._  
 _The grey will have disappeared,_  
 _Replaced with soft golden and pink tones,_  
 _Like the careful caress of a lover’s hand on your cheek._  
 _It’s quite beautiful,_  
 _A pity you will not get to see it._  
 _Your fingers soothe the bumps risen on your skin,_  
 _Heat leaching away from your fingers,_  
 _And being absorbed into your very bones._  
 _Which are still cool enough,_  
 _To reject the warmth._  
 _Your eyes flutter close,_  
 _Eyelashes soft against your pale, washed out skin._  
 _Your hollow cheekbones a map,_  
 _Down to the parted lips through which so little air is inhaled._  
 _Your eyes snap open._  
 _The world is spinning around you,_  
 _And you can’t quite see straight, but you will stagger on_  
 _Your sluggish movements will carry you to the shoreline,_  
 _And when the tide inevitably swells up and swallows you whole,_  
 _Remember, you asked for this._ ”

Thomas’ eyes were sharp, trained on the hushed crowd. He took a deep breathe, shaking, and then smiled. Minho grinned as the listeners cheered. The kid was pretty good. Thomas swayed gently from side to side for a moment, biting his lip. “Thanks.” He said, sheepishly, and he trailed off the stage.   
Newt grinned, “He was amazing right?”  
"Totally." Minho responded, a bit dazed.   
Newt gripped his arm like a vice, babbling excitedly. “And the best part is, he’s going to come to the exhibition tomorrow.” He flailed, “Thomas Green is coming to see my artwork! Me!” He fanned himself, sarcastically. “I think I’m gonna faint.”  
Minho would have made fun of him, but his mind was still focused on the first thing Newt had said. ‘Coming to the exhibition tomorrow?’ Minho smiled, brightly and fully. His time to shine.

  
His fingers drummed against his protruding collarbone thoughtfully. The piece was gorgeous, there was no denying it. It was an edited photograph, different from Issac’s usual work. The main focus of the picture was a teen, not much older than himself, with a hand stuck in his hair as he laughed his hands. The entire picture was in black and white, apart from his eyes, crinkled from laughing. A rough swipe, almost looking like a thick paintbrush, doused his eyes and the bridge of his nose in colour, drips like wax falling down his tanned cheeks and colouring them as well. The picture was beautiful, but the teenager… He was the true masterpiece. A hand suddenly gripped Thomas’ shoulder, making him jump. He turned to see the artist beside him, Issac “Newt” as the picture credited.   
"Hey." He grinned, with a noticable British twang. "Like it?"  
Thomas nodded vigourisly. “It’s beautiful.”  
"Ya think?" Newt cocked his head, evaluating, as he looked at the picture. "Huh. The model’s actually here tonight."  
"Really?" Thomas yelped. ‘Damn it.’ He cursed himself, ‘Way to be cool, you freaking twit.’  
Newt, for his part, simply smirked. “Yeah, he should be around here…” he trailed off, before reaching out suddenly and yanking a passerby into the conversation. “Thomas, Minho,” He introduced.  
Minho grinned, smugly, and stuck out his hand to shake. Thomas took it.  
"Great," Newt drawled, "Now, can you stop being antisocial, Minho, and actually start up a conversation with someone other than me in this God foresaken room?"  
Minho dropped Thomas’ hand slowly, staring flirtatatiously at the brunet as he did so. “I think I could manage that.”  
Thomas blushed.


End file.
